In the Name of the Father
by Abracadebra
Summary: A father and a son, wedged between two world wars and their own demons. A series of vignettes from Newkirk's childhood, exploring the formative events in his painful relationship with his father and how he developed his unusual skills. Papa Bear Awards 2019: Best Story of 2018 (Gold), Best Long Drama (Gold), Best Canon Character (Gold), Best Original Character (Gold)
1. Four: November 1918 to February 1919

**Four: November 1918 to February 1919**

"Arr-miss-tiss." That was the word Mam and all the aunts and uncles kept saying. But young Peter had no idea what it meant. As the November afternoon gave way to early evening, he sat in his Granda's lap in the warm, snug kitchen. He was half listening to the giddy adults, and half watching his bigger cousins chasing the cat with feathers teased out from the lumpy bed in the next room. The four-year-old dozed off by teatime.

"Your Dada's coming home," Mam told him day after day. He didn't know what to think of that. He didn't remember.

"Dee-mobbed." What did it mean? That was the funny word Uncle Jim and Granda said as they hunched with their cigarettes in front of the fire, clothes ripe with dust and the sweat of a day's work. Mam bustled about, preparing their evening tea and humming softly, and Peter smiled too.

"Alfred's coming home very soon. Maybe next week," Granda told the little lad. "Who?" he said to roars of laughter. "That's your Dada, silly," Mam teased him, her green eyes sparkling. He laughed too.

"A letter from the min-is-tree!" Mam said cheerfully as her brother and dad arrived at the door, waving a brown envelope in her hand. The little boy tugged at her skirt. "A letter from a tree?" They laughed, and he wrinkled his brow. Then he laughed too.

"He'll be here Tuesday on the 4:20 from Dover at Charing Cross. Of course I'll take the wee one with me to see his Dada." Smiles all around, and the clink of chipped teacups.

"Oh, what a handsome lad. Your Dada will be so proud of you." Mam had the boy scrubbed, brushed, and buttoned into his Sunday clothes on a cold February morning. Cap in place. Shoes blackened. Socks pulled up. A little packet of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper for the long journey. The shoes pinched as Peter and his Mam walked to Liverpool Street to the Underground. Hours and hours of walking and waiting.

"Wake up, son. There's your Da!" He raised his dozy head from Mam's warm shoulder. He was hungry. He was cold. The noise and the crowds were overwhelming. He started to cry.

"Don't be a baby," said the man in the rough brown overcoat with the haversack as he grabbed Peter and his Mam. She was crying now too, but the man was laughing. "Ah, Mary, you've spoilt the lad. Come on, son, no crying. Be a soldier."

Peter didn't know what to think of the man. He didn't remember.


	2. Six: November 1920

**Six: November 1920**

"Yes, I've been looking. There's no work! I can't hear well enough any longer for the factory line. Those damn shells, whizzing past my ears for four bloody years." Peter's father, gone all day, was finally home. Waking up in the dark room off the kitchen, Peter could hear the church bells chiming – eight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock.

"You have your strength, Alfred. You have your four good limbs. Our Gladys's Arthur is hauling scenery in the flies at the Hackney Empire three performances a day. It's something. Couldn't you talk to him?" His mother was up late, as always, ironing other people's shirts and blouses and handkerchiefs.

"Talk to him!" Alfred scoffed. "That pious old git! No, thank you, Mary, I'll do this my way."

Nights were for sleeping, except when Da came home long past dark. In the days when it was just Peter and Mam in the tiny two-room flat, he'd curl up next to her all night, warm and comfy. But now the voices from the kitchen jostled him awake most nights. He stretched in his camp bed and tried to concentrate on his baby sister's soft breaths. Mavis slumbered inches away, in the middle of the big bed that belonged to their parents.

"You've got to try, Fred. I'm taking in all the sewing and washing I can, but I can't be on my feet all day. Not with another one on the way."

CRASH. It was a cup or a saucer, toppling to the floor as a fist slammed into the old red table. "Damn it, woman, enough! I am trying! There's nothing for me."

His words reverberated, and the wailing started. "Ma-ma! Ma-maaa!"

Peter crept to his baby sister's side on the bed and stretched out beside her. "Now, hush," he whispered. "Shhh. Don't make a fuss, Mavis. He'll hear us." He stroked her curls and gave her a tickle on the tum and a kiss on the cheek, but it wouldn't do. Not in the middle of the night. He'd have to get Mam.

The boy cracked open the door to the kitchen and peered at the scene: Mam on her hands and knees, cleaning up broken porcelain. Da at the table, clutching his head in his hands and murmuring, "I'm sorry, love. I'm truly sorry." Mam rising to her feet, resting a hand on his slumped back and shaking her head wordlessly. She looked over her shoulder to see her small son, blinking into the light at the bedroom door.

"Mam, Mavis woke up. She's crying for you."

"I'm coming, Peter. Let's get you back to bed, son. You have to be in school tomorrow. Tsh, tsh, Mavis." She looked back at her husband, who was still cradling his head. "I'll be back out as soon they're settled, Alfred."

Mam lay down on the big bed, snuggling little Mavis in her arms. Peter rested his head on his mother's oddly swelling midsection, wondering for a moment why it wasn't as cushy as usual. She sang softly, a Welsh song he knew well.

 _Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes,  
_ _Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon;  
Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat,  
Cariad mam sy dan fy mron.*_

Peter was halfway asleep when he heard the creak of the door. It was his Da, peering in from the doorway.

"I'm going down the pub," Da said.

"It's past closing time, Fred," Mam responded sharply.

Her husband hesitated, then spoke softly. "Jack will give me something if I help him clean up," he said.

"Oh, I'm sure he will, Fred. I'm sure he will," Mam replied. Her irritated tone made plain that she thought Jack had "given" Alfred quite enough already.

Her husband looked at his little family on the bed: The sleeping baby with her golden curls. The pregnant wife whose lullaby he had interrupted. The six-year-old school boy, nuzzling his mother like a puppy.

"Peter, get off your Mam. You're getting too big for that, lad." No answer from the boy, his eyes shut and his small body limp.

"Let him sleep, Fred," Mam snapped. "Go and give us some rest. I'll move him later." She sighed deeply as her husband left. Peter felt her hand stroking his hair as the door to the flat clicked shut.

"I'm still awake, Mam," Peter whispered the minute his father was gone.

"I know you are, son," Mam said. "I know. But you can rest now." And in a matter of minutes, he was smiling gently in his sleep, protected and warm.

Notes:

*The traditional Welsh lullaby, Suo Gân. Translation:

 _Sleep child upon my bosom,_

 _It is cozy and warm;_

 _Mother's arms are tight around you,  
_

 _A mother's love is in my breast._


	3. Eight: March 1923

**Eight: March 1923**

Light was just breaking through the window on a morning in late March when Peter awoke to a rough shake of his thin shoulder.

"Come on now, boy, no dawdling. Button up and let's go." It was his father, up with the dawn and dressed for the cold. "We have something to do," he said.

Peter knew it was too early for school, but stifled the urge to point it out. To the kitchen he went to find his clothes, hung over the side of a chair the night before by his mother.

"We might be poor, but we're not destitute," Mam often said. "I won't have you looking common." So his blue school shirt was pressed. His short grey school trousers were brushed clean, or as clean as any mother of a lively boy could manage. His woolly jumper was neatly folded on the table. Beside it lay his third pair of grey knee socks, stretched from wear but washed, dried, and neatly darned.

Peter trotted past his wardrobe to the front door and out to the hallway landing. Eventually old Mr. Parsons from next door emerged from the W.C., and Peter popped in to make quick work of his morning business. Back in the kitchen, he dressed quickly as his Da sat at the table, staring at the surface while tapping ashes from a cigarette.

It wasn't yet 7 o'clock, and the rest of the family – Mam, three-and-a-half-year-old Mavis, and the baby, Kathleen, nearly two years old – were sleeping soundly in the room all of them shared. After tugging on his boots, Peter took the scratchy blue wool coat he'd worn all winter from the hook by the door. A hand-me-down from his big cousin Charlie, it still hung loosely on 8-year-old Peter's frame.

"Ready, Da," he said. As they descended the stairs from their second-floor flat, he worked up the nerve to ask the obvious question: "Where are we going, Da?"

It was a risky move. Peter, always inquisitive when his Mam was with him, hesitated to ask his father anything.

"Never you mind. Just listen close and do what I say," his father replied. The words weren't angry, just flat.

A cold, damp March was finally giving way to sunny days in the last week of the month, and the air felt fresh as the pair made their way through Spitalfields. Peter scrambled to keep up with his father's long stride as they headed down Gun Street, onto Artillery Lane, and onto Bishopsgate. Soon they'd walked beyond their regular shops and stalls to a less familiar stretch of the high street.

Da ducked into a doorway and beckoned Peter over. Hand on the boy's shoulder, he surveyed the street while Peter looked up at him quizzically. Then he did something shocking. He knelt down, looked his son in the eyes, and spoke gently to him.

"It's important to look your best," Alfred Newkirk told his son as he uncurled the boy's collar and brushed off his coat. Examining the boy as if for the first time, Da pulled a comb out of his pocket and parted Peter's mussy light-brown hair, deftly applying a bit of spit to improve the hold. "Be polite and look them in the eye," he told the boy. "And just do what I say. Can you do that?"

Peter nodded gravely, though he had no idea why his appearance suddenly mattered to his father. "What do I do?" he asked.

"Look at the shopkeeper when he's talking to us, and keep your eyes on me when he's busy. Open your coat when I nod at you, and close it up quick. And don't drop anything," Da instructed. He rose up, patted his son on the shoulder, smiled, took him by the hand, and strode to the third shop on the right. _Evans Dairy_ , the sign said.

A bell jingled as they entered the shop. The elderly shopkeeper, noticeably older than either of Peter's grandfathers, seemed wary of the strangers until Alfred doffed his cap and smiled warmly.

"Good morning, Mr. Evans," Da said cheerfully. "The missus realized we were a bit short of eggs and butter for breakfast and asked me to pick up a few things before I leave to work. I think you know her. She comes in often with our two little girls while Charlie here is in school."

"Oh, does she?" the shopkeeper said. "Well, what do you need?"

"She thought four eggs and a half-pound of butter would do the trick, Mr. Evans," Da continued.

"Well, we usually sell six or a dozen, but I suppose I could break up a dozen for a regular customer," the shopkeeper said. "Just a moment, Mr. -?"

"Wilson," Da lied. "Mr. Wilson."

"Right-o, Mr. Wilson," the shopkeeper said. He turned his back to sort the eggs. Peter watched in amazement as his Da swiftly reached across the counter to grab a loaf of bread. Before he clasped the loaf, Da looked seriously at Peter and nodded.

Peter instantly obeyed his father, yanking his loose coat open at the neck and pushing the bread down just as Mr. Evans turned around. Peter looked at the old shopkeeper and smiled warmly, as his father had done.

"If that boy isn't the spitting image of you, Mr. Wilson! Fine young fellow, fine lad. How old are you, young Charlie Wilson?" Mr. Evans asked as he wrapped the eggs in a small bundle.

"Nine," Peter replied, suddenly getting into the spirit of the matter. Why not be nine if he could do, just by saying so?

"I have a Charlie too, but he's grown and flown," Mr. Evans said with a smile. "Now about that butter," he added, and turned to pull a sheet of wax paper off a roll and scoop the butter onto it. Alfred inched down the counter and shot a look at Peter, who drew nearer just in time for his father to hand off a pint of milk. Under the boy's coat it slid. Peter drew his left arm into his coat to get a better grip, and gazed adoringly at his father as Mr. Evans returned.

"Oh, my, it's cold in here, Dada!" Peter chirped in a sing-song voice, shivering for effect as he clutched the bread and milk to himself under the coat. "That keeps everything fresh, doesn't it, Mr. Evans?"

"Clever boy! So charming! Why yes, we get blocks of ice twice a week to keep our food fresh," Mr. Evans replied. "Everything at Evans' Dairy is the freshest you'll find for miles around." His chest puffed noticeably. "All right," Mr. Evans continued. "The eggs, the butter – will you be needing anything else, sir?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Evans, that's everything the missus demands," Da replied archly.

"That would be one shilling four pence, then," Mr. Evans replied.

Da searched his pockets and came up short. "Oh dear, I was in such a rush this morning, I left empty-handed. Let me see, I have sixpence… no, nine pence." He looked meekly at the shop keeper, eyes blinking. Peter moved closer to his father and did the very same thing.

"Not to worry, Mr. Wilson," the shopkeeper replied. "I'm sure we can wait for the other seven pence. I'll just jot it down… Mr Wilson, Mr… "

"Robert," Da supplied

"Mr. Robert Wilson. Yes, sir," Mr Evans said cheerfully as he wrote "7 d." beside the name he had just added to the well-thumbed notebook at the cash register. "Well, it has been a pleasure. The next time the ladies of the Wilson family stop in, we can settle up," the shopkeeper added.

"So kind of you. Thank you, Mr. Evans," Da said.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Evans," Peter echoed as they stepped into the sunshine, looking over his shoulder at the shopkeeper and taking his father's hand again for dramatic effect.

Rounding the corner, father and son dropped hands and established a brisk pace on their walk home to the tiny flat at No. 11 Gun Street. Ascending the stairs, they heard the little girls chattering away as Mam scraped a thin porridge into their bowls.

"You're out early," Mam said, smiling at the unfamiliar sight of her husband and son seemingly enjoying one another's company. "You'll be off to school in 20 minutes, Peter, so eat your porridge. Oh, what have you both brought me?" she asked, stopping to rest one hand on the table and the other on her budding midsection. Her son plunked down a loaf of bread and a pint of milk and her husband deposited four eggs and a slab of butter on the rickety red kitchen table.

"Breakfast," said her husband. "I had a bit of luck yesterday. Here, I'll start the toast." He whistled as he pulled out his pocket knife, sliced off five pieces, and placed them on the grate.

"Luck?" Mam said earnestly. "Oh, Freddy, did you find work? That's grand." She had seen her husband struggle for four years to find steady employment, and any odd job was a cause for celebration.

"Wouldn't a bit of jam be nice with the toast?" Peter interjected with a smile. He sidled up to his dad and extended a small jar. He looked from Mam to Da, expecting approval, and his mother complied, smiling broadly.

But his father greeted the boy with a roar. "Where did you get this?" Da demanded as he rose up from his spot near the fire. "Tell me, right now, you little thieving scoundrel."

The room went silent as father and son faced off, the man hovering menacingly over the little boy. "Don't start, Freddy," Mam said, as the little girls began to whimper. "We were having such a nice morning."

But Peter shushed her and stood tall.

"No, Mam, it's all right. Da, don't you remember? You said you wanted it for Mammy," he said sweetly. Peter locked his eyes on his father and beamed.

Alfred knew a whopping lie when he heard one, but he couldn't match his son's determination, and was the first to break the gaze. He looked down, pulled out a cigarette, and lit up as Peter helped his mother spoon out the jam.


	4. Nine: December 1923

**Nine: December 1923**

A chill shook Peter as he scrambled to keep pace with his father's long stride. Making their way up Mare Street on a cold Sunday night a week before Christmas, they were bound for the Hackney Empire, leaving light footprints in the just-gathering snow.

Ever since the first time his Uncle Arthur let Peter tag along to the Empire to see the Christmas Pantomime during his work shift, the boy had been entranced by the grand music hall. He remembered how Uncle had lifted him onto a high stool in the wings, just two feet away from the smiling props master, and put a skinny finger to his lips.

"Quiet now," Uncle Arthur had told Peter firmly but kindly. "You can stay as long as you don't make noise or get in anyone's way. You're in luck, it's Puss in Boots tonight. Be a good boy and don't make a sound until – well, you'll see."

Uncle Arthur had smiled, stroked the boy's hair, and walked off, rolling up his sleeves as he headed to his work hauling scenery in the flies. Peter remembered peering out at the vast auditorium with its three swooping balconies, bedecked in swirling golden foliage, and a sea of plush red seats. He felt unaccountably excited as the audience trickled in.

At five, Peter was equal parts mesmerized and baffled, especially by the odd characters bustling around him in the wings- a pretty girl in a coat and trousers, a hideous man in lipstick, big hair and an even bigger dress, and a cow—or was it a horse?

But now, at the wise old age of nine, he was a regular in the wings. He knew every panto convention and eagerly joined in with the choruses of "Oh, no it isn't!" and "Look behind you!" And the Dame and the other blokes in dresses, voices alternating between shrill and deep, made him laugh till he wheezed.

Peter smiled at the prospect of a visit to the Empire, took a deep breath, sped up, and caught up to his father, tugging at his sleeve. Alfred Newkirk, looked down distractedly as his oldest boy asked, "Is the pantomime on, Da?"

"No, of course not. It's Sunday night. The theater's dark now," Fred responded.

"Why are we going, then?" Peter inquired. "Is Uncle Arthur working tonight? Are you helping him with the riggings again?"

"Not tonight," Fred answered his son. He groaned inwardly at the mention of his irritatingly gentle brother-in law, so adored by Fred's own children. He paused for his son to catch up again and dutifully slowed his pace, dropped a hand on Peter's shoulder, and registered for the first time all evening the fact that his boy was struggling to keep up with him. Still just a little lad, he had to remind himself.

As the Hackney Empire came into view, Fred abruptly steered Peter off Mare Street and into the warmth of the Prince of Wales public house. "We're meeting a friend," he finally said.

Heading to end of the bar, Fred boosted Peter onto a high seat, ordering a bitter for himself and a lemonade for the boy. Then he stood, back to his son, surveying the room.

H-H-H-H

Peter was quietly finishing his lemonade and counting the bottles on the bar when he noticed his father raising an arm to wave over his friend. After 20 minutes of dead silence, Peter saw his father come alive, his dazzling smile making a rare appearance as he gestured to the slight, older man with wavy brown hair and bright eyes.

Peering around his father's shoulder, Peter knew his dad's friend was a grownup – the lines etched in his face told him that he was older than Dad, though certainly not as old as Granda. But he looked so … odd, with his pointy chin and nose, and he was barely taller than Cousin Charlie, who was nearly 13. He looks like an elf, Peter thought.

"You brought the lad. Good, good," the man said. Hands lodged firmly in his coat pockets, he nudged Fred out of the way to get a better look and smiled approvingly. "Not too big. Is he clever?"

"Too clever by half," Fred responded. "He catches on quick," he added with a hint of admiration Peter hadn't heard before, and actually tousled his son's hair. Definitely an elf, Peter thought. He's got Dad under a spell.

"How old are you, boy?" the man asked Peter.

Peter looked quizzically from his father, who nodded assent, then looked back to the man, and finally answered, "I was nine last month, mister. Um, sir."

"It's Mr. Burke, Peter," his father said. The boy nodded energetically, but looked confused.

"Peter, what are you good at?" Mr. Burke asked.

"Ahmmm… ahh," the boy stammered. Speaking to his mam and aunts and uncles was one thing, but Mr. Burke was a stranger, and no stranger had ever taken an interest in him before. It was an odd question, to boot. But the grownups Peter knew – well, at least one - didn't take well to impertinent silence in response to an inquiry. So he nibbled his lip and quickly came up with something.

"Ahm, I like to run. I like to climb. I can draw, and I can read to my sisters. I play football with the boys on our street." Peter searched Mr. Burke's face for a reaction – was this the right answer? Or was he about to get a clout on the ear?

To his great relief, Peter was rewarded with a warm smile. "You like to climb, do you? That's good, that's good. How about puzzles. Do you like puzzles?"

"Oh, I do!" Peter said enthusiastically. "I make up mystery games with a deck of cards, and I like to figure things out, see how they fit together. My little sister Kathleen had a clockwork dog and I took it apart and put it back together, and it still worked." He puffed up just a little as he said it. He was warming up to this elfin man who took such a keen interest in him.

"And you like the theater, don't you? I hear your uncle has taken you all over it," Mr. Burke said.

"Oh yes. I go to work with him sometimes so I can see the show," Peter said. " I think I know everyone there now!" Another puff.

Mr. Burke nodded sagely. "Such a clever boy you have here, Fred. Have you told him anything?" Mr. Burke said, never taking his eyes off the boy.

"No, no, I put that to you and I leave it to you," Fred answered softly. "We shouldn't discuss it here."

H-H-H-H

Ten minutes later, the two men and the boy were in the alley alongside the Hackney Empire. It ran along the west side of the building, where the box office occupied the corner. Hurrying past the box office into the alley, Fred walked several yards ahead of Peter and Mr. Burke and approached a small, street level door. He jiggled the handle and shook his head in a silent communication to Mr. Burke. A light snow fell silently as the moon shone brightly.

Mr. Burke nodded back at Fred, and then put his hand on Peter's shoulder.

"Look up there," he said. "That little window. Do you think you could climb to it?"

Halfway between the box office and the door where Fred stood was a small window. The sill was perhaps two feet above Fred's shoulders, and it had decorative masonry under and around it. It was open a crack, just enough to let in fresh air.

"I … I think I can," Peter answered.

"Do you know where that window leads, Peter?" Mr. Burke asked.

"Mmmm, I'm not sure. I – I – I don't think so," the boy stuttered. Between the snow and late hour, he was growing weary of the guessing game.

"Think about it now," Mr. Burke coaxed. "That's the box office right there, isn't it? What else is there? Try to see it in your mind's eye."

Peter looked hard. He bit his lip and cocked his head. He retraced his steps from his friendly visits to Miss Warsky, the box office manager, who worked in a small room next to the theater manager's office. The business office, they called the suite of rooms. He went there on every visit to say hello to Miss Warsky, who invariably rewarded him with a handful of lemon drops. ("Three for you and three for your little sisters, Peter," she told him. The baby, Gwen, was too little for sweeties, so he would dole out two each to Mavis and Kathleen and keep only two for himself.)

"Oh yes, now I know," Peter said. "That little window and door go into the business office, where Miss Warsky and Mr. Broadhurst work." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "That's where the safe is," he confided.

\- To be continued -


	5. Nine: December 1923 (Part 2)

**Nine: December 1923 (Part 2)**

Mr. Burke nodded approvingly at Fred Newkirk, who had rejoined his son and his friend in the alley below the small window. "That's where I thought it was," Mr. Burke said softly. "It arrived last month. An old Chubb. Good British workmanship. I know it well."

"Can you – do you think you can do it tonight?" Fred inquired. He looked around nervously, but the alley was secluded and the falling snow muffled even their quiet voices. "For Christmas?"

"Most certainly. What I don't want to do is linger out here in the moonlight. We need to work quickly," Mr. Burke replied. "Can you whistle?"

"Can I – what? What? Well, yes, I can whistle," Fred said. "But…why?" He was plainly out of his depth and baffled by the peculiar question.

"You stay out here and signal us – three quick tweets – if anyone comes. The boy and I go inside," Mr. Burke said. "Peter, come here." He bent down to look the nine-year-old in the eyes and was greeted with a barely stifled yawn. He took him by the shoulders and gave him a small shake to wake him up.

"I think it would be great fun if you would climb into that window and then unlatch the door to let me in," Mr. Burke told the sleepy boy. "I'd love to see that beautiful old safe."

Peter stared through a mental haze at the elfin man, who was matter-of-factly proposing what sounded an awful lot like sneaking around where they didn't belong. He'd been so kind, asking Peter about himself and seeming so interested in his responses. Peter thought for a long moment, then cocked his head and smiled a replica of his father's smile. This did sound like fun.

H-H-H-H

With a boost from Mr. Burke, Peter climbed onto his father's shoulders and stood there a moment to get his balance. Then, reaching up and pushing down hard with his arms, he lifted himself up onto the masonry windowsill. The stone was wet and he slipped twice, but recovered his footing. The old casement window was tight and rusty, but with a little nudging he got opened it wider – just wide enough to wriggle through. Shoulders, waist, and finally feet – he was inside. It barely took a minute.

Peter knew this place. The window dropped him into a small room with two desks, where Miss Warsky worked where the box office wasn't open, alongside a bookkeeper. It led to a larger room, Mr. Broadhurst's office, where the safe stood. Beyond it, a small waiting room with the door to the outside.

After a short struggle with a stiff deadbolt, Peter opened the door to a gust of cold air and a smiling elf holding a torch. Mr. Burke handed the light to Peter. "Lead me to it, lad," he said.

H-H-H-H

Alfred Burke – for yes, he was an Alfred too – took in the sight before him with a connoisseur's eye. He was in the presence of a vintage 1870s Chubb Safe. Burglar resistant and pick proof – except in the hands of a proper artist, of course. He turned to the small boy beside him.

"Take a look, Peter – the beautifully polished handles and dials. Such a delicate weight in your hand, and yet so strong. Now listen."

He advanced the dial. Tick-tick-tick. Not a loud click, but something much more subtle and beautiful to his well trained ear. Music. A challenge.

Mr. Burke knelt by the safe and cupped his ear. He fiddled the dial back and forth for several long minutes, softly narrating in bursts.

"You listen closely and imagine what's happening inside," he said. "This type has three numbers in the combination, so three wheels. As long as the fence rests on the wheel notches, the lock stays shut."

He continued murmuring as if reciting a magic spell, as if the boy weren't there at all, and then pulled a stethoscope from within his coat.

"What I'm doing, Peter, is I'm listening for two clicks near each other. Parking the wheels... spinning and counting the clicks... listening for the bolt to pull back..." The words slowed as his concentration intensified. Then suddenly, he pressed the handle just so, flashed a grin, and click – the safe cracked open in perfect sync with Peter's jaw.

Bags of coins and notes, evidence of brisk Christmas Pantomime ticket sales, were stacked inside, waiting to be deposited when the banks opened on Monday morning. Mr. Burke collected a pile of loose sixpences and shillings and handed them to Peter.

"I could give you a handful of crowns, but a boy your age can't go about with a crown in his pocket," Mr. Burke advised. "People would wonder. But a few small coins – it makes sense you would have those. So take a pile of these rather than any crowns," Mr. Burke explained.

Peter flushed. He thought of his mam. He thought of how he sat at her side on Sunday mornings – just this morning – at the Welsh chapel. He thought of his Newkirk grandmother, who took her little scamp to Catholic mass as often as she could catch him - which admittedly was less and less often. Mr. Burke sounded so reasonable, so careful. Still, this couldn't be right.

"You've earned it boy. You've earned it," Mr. Burke was saying. Peter watched as he gathered up six small bags of coins – no point in being greedy, he said – to split with Fred. He tucked them inside his voluminous overcoat, closed the safe, and gave it a gentle caress. Then he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped down every part he had touched. No, not greedy, Peter thought. They're just little small coins. Like Mr. Burke said, who would miss them?

Peter watched, caught between pleasing his father and Mr. Burke and following his conscience. He stifled a small sob as he latched the door behind Mr. Burke. He calmed himself as he slipped through the casement, teetered on the ledge, pulled the window almost shut, and slid down into his father's waiting arms.

Then Fred Newkirk caught his boy and swept him up in celebration. He held him on his hip and tousled his hair. Even after he put him down and gave him an affectionate pat on the back, he seemed aglow. Peter looked up at the father he barely knew and understood even less. He had never done anything to make his father proud or happy. Until now. Now, it seemed, he knew how to touch his father's heart.

"Such composure," Mr. Burke was saying to Fred. "He's got it, Fred. He's really got talent."

Peter kept walking, steps ahead of his dad and Mr. Burke, coins jingling in his pocket. And he smiled to himself, a rogue's smile.

H-H-H-H

Christmas dinner was a grand event this year. Alfred, Mary, and their four children; Aunt Gladys, Uncle Arthur, and Cousin Charlie; Uncle Jim; Granda and Granny; and an assortment of great aunts and uncles that Peter couldn't keep straight in his head. They shared a marvelous bounty of meats and pies and drink, and even some presents for the children. Tin soldiers for Peter, a doll for Mavis, blocks for Kathleen, a rattle for Gwen, and apples and oranges for all.

After dinner, Peter gathered his little sisters in a circle on the floor and used a tattered deck of cards to set up a memory game for them. From the adult side of the room, he heard a name: "Miss Warsky…" "Miss Warsky…" It was whispered more than once.

He walked over to his Uncle Arthur. "Is Miss Warsky coming over?" he asked.

Uncle Arthur looked sad and hesitated for a moment. He cast his eyes over to his sister-in-law, Mary Newkirk, for a signal. Should he tell Peter? Peter's mother nodded yes.

"Peter, it's bad news. Miss Warsky doesn't work at the Hackney Empire any longer."

No Miss Warsky? Peter reeled. "But why?" he cried.

Uncle Arthur's eyes went back to Mary. She reached out and took her young son by the hand. She squeezed gently as she looked into his eyes.

"Sometimes even good people do things they shouldn't," Peter's mother explained. "Miss Warsky was caught doing something wrong."

"She couldn't!" Peter shouted. "She was the nicest lady! She gave us sweets! She always asked me to come visit her! What did she do?" He was almost crying now.

Mary cast her eyes down. These were adult problems, but she knew how much Peter loved Miss Warsky. And she knew there was an important lesson to communicate.

"She handled the money, Peter. When they added up all the ticket sales, there should have been more in the safe. The only explanation is that she was helping herself to some of it," Mary explained.

Her son's eyes widened. Mary held him closer. "You know it's wrong, son. She did too. But she did it anyway. Sometimes people do what they know is wrong, and it is very sad."

Peter pulled back, wiping his tears as he stared at his mother, and slipped away from her embrace shaking his head. He looked to his father. Fred Newkirk, sitting at the end of the table and nursing a glass of Christmas ale, flickered a smile at his son and then looked away.

AN: Yes, Fred's friend was Alfred Burke, aka Alfie the Artist, whom we meet in "The Safecracker Suite."


	6. Ten: November 1924 (Part 1)

**Ten: November 1924 (Part 1)**

It was late on a Friday afternoon in November, and the light was already dimming in the cramped shop in Whitechapel where Mendel Levine and his sons served a steady stream of customers. Samuel was wrapping up a new order of shirts for Dr. Emsworth, who was tapping his fingers on the counter. Harold was putting away boxes and boxes of buttons, snaps, and poppers that he had taken down to help Mr. Cohen choose the perfect fastenings for his new overcoat. Mendel was rewrapping the bolts of wool, tweed, and flannel that he and his boys had pulled off the shelves for a busy day of fittings.

Harold, a young man of 19, was the first to notice the slight, brown-haired boy of 10 who pushed open the heavy door, clutching a school satchel. The child's worn blue overcoat had seen better days, with sleeves that now stopped well above his wrists. His knees and cheeks were chapped red on a blustery day.

"Hallo, Peter," Hal called out enthusiastically. He was rewarded with the boy's bright smile.

Samuel, finishing up with the doctor, simply nodded a greeting at the child. He was, after all, 23, and determined to be as serious as his brother was silly. Sending Dr. Emsworth off with his bundle and a hearty thank you, Sam watched as the little boy held the shop door open for the doctor to depart. As the door banged shut, Sam finally spoke. "Mrs. Newkirk, your son is here," he called through the curtain that led to the tailor's workshop.

Soon Mary Newkirk popped her head out through the curtain, and her son dashed to her. "Peter, love, give me a _cwtch_ ," she said in her Welsh lilt, pulling her boy into a hug while taking care to lift the pincushion on her wrist out of the way. "Take off your cap indoors," she lectured gently, handing him his hat and brushing his hair from his eyes. "I'll be here for another half-hour. You listen to Mr. Levine and help Sam and Hal if you can, and if you can't, well, don't get underfoot."

"Yes, Mam," Peter replied, smiling contentedly at his mother as she disappeared back through the curtain.

From behind him, there was a voice. "Peter, come over here. I've got something to show you," Hal was saying. He had finished tidying up the button boxes and was beckoning the child back to the notions counter that lined the right side of the shop. Peter propped his satchel against the counter and bounced over.

Hal reached into a pocket and clapped his hands together. "All right, Peter, hold out your hand. Palm up," Hal said, quickly placing his own hand palm down on top of the boy's outstretched hand and reached into a pocket again. "Watch as I place threepence on top of my hand," he intoned theatrically. "With one quick slap, I shall pass it through my hand and into yours!"

Peter watched intently as Hal smacked his hand and slowly pulled it away. And there it was – the threepenny bit Hal had promised! As Hal withdrew his hand, Peter grabbed the young man's wrist just as deftly, and turned it over to reveal the coin Hal had snatched away.

"Got you!" Peter said triumphantly. "Magician's wax! You had the coin in your palm all along. But how did you get the other one in me hand without me noticing? I didn't even feel it."

Hal bent forward and pinched the boy's cheek. "Oh, you know the answer to that, mate. Practice, practice, practice. Yes, you caught me, you rascal. A quick study, you are."

"Show me another one, Hal!" Peter said, handing the coin back to Hal, who declined it with a sweeping bow.

Just as Hal was launching into a new trick, he heard a cough coming from his father's direction. "Shabbos is falling," the old man told his youngest son. Sam, agreeing with his father, shook his head disapprovingly at his brother.

"Well, the amazing feats of conjurers Harold Levine and Peter Newkirk will have to wait for another day," Hal said dramatically. "But I'll tell you what, Peter. Come back Monday, and I'll teach you some card tricks. And if you sweep up, you can keep the threepence."

As Peter picked up a broom and set to work, Mendel was finishing up the Friday pay packets for the men and women in the workroom. "It's getting quite late," he said with a frown to no one in particular. "The _melachot_ …"

"Perhaps we could ask _dem kleyn eyngl_ …" Sam said.

"No, it's not permitted to ask," Mendel replied. He hadn't noticed that the boy, who had been chattering with Hal about card and coin tricks while sweeping, had now stopped at his side.

"What did you want to ask me?" Peter inquired.

Mendel laughed. "How did you know we were talking about you?" He pulled the boy closer toward him, tugged on his too-short sleeve, and shot a look at Sam, who nodded back.

" _Dem kleyn eyngl_ ," Peter said. "I've heard you say it before. I think it means me…?"

Hal joined in. "From now on, you're _di klug eyngl_ ," Hal laughed. "Yes, it means you, clever boy. _Tateh_ is talking about Shabbos. Do you know what it means? Look, Peter, take off your coat while you're waiting for your _Mami_. You don't want to catch a chill."

Peter stopped sweeping, and slipped off his coat, which Sam whisked away. He thought for a moment. Shabbos… Sabbath. Yes, he knew that word. Jewish families in the East End had their holy day from Friday night to Saturday night, not on Sunday like his family—well, Mam and Granny, anyway. For most of the Jews in Whitechapel and Stepney, the day of rest was serious business. He knew the Levines would rush home any minute now, before sunset. It was nearly 4 o'clock and light was dimming fast.

Suddenly, Sam was behind Peter with a tape measure, checking his sleeves, his chest, his shoulders. Peter looked at him quizzically, but then Mendel spoke.

"Harold is right, Peter. I was talking about Shabbos. You know there are things Jews are forbidden to do on the Sabbath. At sunset tonight, the women will light the candles. Then, until sunset on Saturday, we can't work or cook or put out a candle or tend the fire."

"But it must get cold in your house," Peter said. "And so dark." He shuddered a little. At 10, he was brave and grown up about a lot of things, but darkness wasn't one of them. He stopped again. "Why can't you light the lights?"

"Because Shabbos is the day above all days that we honor our creator," Mendel said solemnly. "And on the Seventh Day, our creator rested. Who are we to work—to create—when even our maker is resting?"

Peter was quiet. Finally, he spoke. "We don't have the same Sabbath day. Can I light the lights and poke the fires for you?"

Mendel smiled. "It is very kind of you to offer. Of course you can help us. If your _Mami_ agrees, you can come over tonight at 8 o'clock. You know the house?" Peter nodded, and Mendel turned to Sam and Hal. "Nearly 4 o'clock, _meyn zin_. Mrs. Newkirk will lock up." He called through the curtain. "Mary, here are the pay packets for everyone. Thank you for closing up." He pressed the skeleton key to the shop into her hand. "Have the boy bring the key to my house, and we will see you _Mantag_."

As the men trooped out the door, Hal laid Peter's coat on the notions counter. "Don't forget your coat, Houdini," he called out.

"Good night, Maskelyne," Peter shouted back with a grin.

 **HHHHH**

"Mam," Peter said as he walked homeward along Commercial Road with his mother, "Mr. Levine said I could come help with the fire tonight. Can I go?"

Mary looked down at Peter, his hand nestled in her own, and smiled. In broad daylight, the growing boy wouldn't consider holding her hand in public. But it was past 5 p.m., and night was descending.

"What time does he want you?" Mary asked as she clutched a bundle of mending for the weekend in her left arm.

"He said 8 o'clock," Peter replied.

She nodded. "By then, their prayers and supper are over. You can help them by rinsing off the dishes, tending the fire, and seeing if they need anything moved about. And Peter?"

"Yes, Mam?" he answered.

"Look about to see what needs to be done. They can't ask you to help, so you have to keep your eyes open," she explained. She'd helped the Levines many times when Peter was just a wee one, while her husband was fighting in Europe and before more babies came along. "If Mr. Levine says, 'Oh, it's getting dark in here,' you can switch on a light. If he says 'Oh, the room is cold,' you can put pennies in the gas meter to warm it up. He'll leave the coins out. Do you understand?"

"I think so. It's like he'll give me hints," Peter answered. They continued along the dark streets until Peter piped up again. "Mam?"

"Hmm?" his mother replied.

"What if Da's home?" Peter asked. "Will he let me go? I don't think he likes Mr. Levine."

She sighed. She hadn't wanted Peter to notice that. With a few drinks under his belt, Alfred Newkirk was prone to saying things he wouldn't say when sober. Their Jewish neighbors in Whitechapel had come in for harsh words more than once, and her boss was a particularly frequent target of her husband's anger. Deep down, she knew, any stable man capable of earning or paying a wage would have felt Freddy's fury; the Orthodox Jews, with their beards and old-country garb, were simply an easy target. Mary told herself that it was the mere fact that his wife had to work so hard that tore Alfred up inside.

"I don't think he'll be home until closing time, love," Mary said. Freddy haunted their local, the Ten Bells, most nights, and could be found there every Friday and Saturday until after the publican called 'Time, Gentlemen.' "Look, we'll have Granda walk out with you, all right? It's dark out, and it's your first time." She squeezed his hand, and he responded with a squeeze back.

"All right," Peter said, leaning into his Mam as they walked. He was as cheered by the thought of not seeing his father as he was comforted by the prospect of having his Granda with him when he set out to help the Levines.

Reaching their flat, Peter took the mending from his mother and dashed up the stairs ahead of her. Flinging open their front door, he saw his Granny grilling sausages on the stove as his Granda attempted to corral a squirming 3-year-old Kathleen into a washtub. Five-year-old Mavis stood nearby, drying herself off by the fire, and Gwen, just 18 months old, toddled along, holding on to Granny's apron.

Peter stowed his bundles on a chair by the door and went to Mavis, taking over with the towel to dry her hair. Then he wrapped her up in the damp towel and chased her giggling into the bedroom to get her nightgown.

Taking her coat off and hanging it on a hook, Mary stood with her hands on her hips, sizing up the domestic scene. The cozy flat was warm and tidy, the sizzle of sausages meant their tea was nearly ready, and her loved ones were mostly clean and certainly happy.

"Thank you, Da," she told her father-in-law as Kathleen splashed in the tub. "I'll scrub her now." She rolled up her sleeves as she looked over her shoulder to her mother-in-law. "Mother, I'll take the baby as soon as I've got our Katie here all cleaned up."

Her father-in-law nodded, settled down at the table, lit a cigarette, inhaled, and coughed. A quiet and kind man, Henry Newkirk was a magnet for his grandchildren. Peter and Mavis rushed back into the room and straight into his arms. Granny took the towel from Peter's hands and hung it on rack in front of the fire to dry.

"I've got a magic trick to show you," Peter was telling the old man as Mavis settled into her Granda's lap.

"Ah, now this should be good," Granda answered, when Mary chimed in.

"Da, Peter is going to go to the Levines' tonight to help with the fire and whatever else they need him to do for the Sabbath. Can you walk over there with him and bring him back?"

"Of course, love," Granda replied. "They've been good to you, them Levines. Least we can do to help them, eh?" he said, looking at Peter, poking him in the ribs to elicit a giggle. Then Granda started coughing again, harder this time.

Peter got up to get a glass of water for his Granda as Mavis simply sat in his lap and watched, green eyes round and wide. Granny hovered near and rubbed his shoulder as Granda took a sip. The cough settled down.

"Oh, and Da?" Mary said softly, "could you stop by the Ten Bells on your way to collect the wages from Freddy?" Her father-in-law nodded solemnly. He was accustomed to this by now.

 **NOTES:**

 _Cwtch_ is the Welsh word for a hug. It's pronounced "Cootch."

 _Shabbos_ , of course, is the Sabbath, a solemn day of rest in Judeo-Christian tradition. The _melachot_ are the 39 categories of activity that Jews are forbidden under religious law to perform on _Shabbos_ , including cooking, lighting and extinguishing fires, and carrying objects. How strictly individuals adhere to these prohibitions depends a great deal on their orthodoxy—Orthodox Jews traditionally followed them. In this story, the young Peter Newkirk is on his way to becoming a _Shabbos Goy_ —the term for a non-Jew who performs _melachot_ that Jews are not permitted to perform on the Sabbath. _Dem kleyn eyngl_ is Yiddish for "the little boy." _Di klug eyngl_ is Yiddish for "the clever boy." _Tateh_ (usually spelled _Tate_ , but I added the _h_ to clarify the pronunciation) means Dad. _Mami_ is Mummy. _Meyn zin_ is my sons. _Mantag_ is Monday.

Houdini and Maskelyne were two of the great magicians and illusionists (American and British, respectively) of the early 20th century.

A big thank you to Snooky-9093 for reading and commenting on the story, and for helping jar loose the Shabbos Goy angle in the first place a couple of years ago!

There will be two more parts to this chapter, coming up in the next couple of weeks.


	7. Ten: November 1924 (Part 2)

**Ten: November 1924 (Part 2)**

It was a moonless night as Henry Newkirk and his grandson Peter set out for the walk to the Levines' home on White's Row - a short distance from home, except that they had some business to tend to on the way. Grandfather and grandson walked silently, hand in hand, through streets that were still busy at 7:30 p.m.

Up Gun Street they headed. They turned right onto Brushfield Street, and crossed Commercial Street. Heading left, they approached the Ten Bells Pub. Peter had passed it every day on his way to Christ Church Junior School since he was 7, and he had heard stories of it since he was even smaller.

"Were you alive when Jack the Ripper was 'round here?" Peter asked his grandfather. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the tale anyway, despite the late hour.

"Me? Oh, you know that story, Peter," Henry Newkirk replied. "Yes, I was already grown up and just married to your Granny when ol' Leather Apron was causing havoc here. Them murders all happened in 10 weeks, you know," he said. "Eighteen eighty-eight, it was. This was my pub too, back in them days. That last girl, Mary Kelly, stopped in at the Ten Bells before she died."

"Did you know her?" Peter asked.

"Oh, I might have seen her about," Henry responded. Who knew, really, but it was a good yarn and he wasn't going to deny it.

"Was my Da born yet?" Peter inquired.

Henry coughed and let out a hard breath, as he stopped in front of the pub at the corner of Fournier Street. "No, no, not yet, Peter," he replied. "Our oldest girl, your Auntie Annie, was on the way. Then our Florrie, God rest her soul. Our Freddy was next. Then Peter and Frankie, bless them, and Jamie and Ellie. Well, we'd better go inside and face him."

Peter and his grandfather stepped over the threshold into the crowded pub, which was warm with smoke, ale, sawdust, and the sweat of the day's work. Through a haze, they saw Alfred sitting at the far end of the bar, at a table with three of his mates. He was smiling and laughing as he saw his father and son approaching.

"Well, Dad, you've come to have a pint with us! And look here, it's my boy, Peter! Come on, son, let's get you a lemon squash." He was on his feet and heading to the bar, wobbling slightly. Alfred Newkirk grabbed Peter by the arm. Peter looked over his shoulder and sized up the table his Da had departed, and saw brimming ashtrays and dirty pint glasses and shot glasses scattered about it. His father had started early.

"Freddy, nothing for us- we can't stay," Henry was saying. He clutched his son's arm and leaned in to whisper. Now Freddy was shaking his head.

"Ah, she can't let me have a little enjoyment after a hard week of work, now can she? Let her wait. I'll be home soon enough," Freddy told his father fiercely, turning back to the bar to order another round of drinks for his table, pushing Peter ahead of him.

But Henry persisted. "Well, son, I think it would be best if you could hand it over now. Keep enough to have your fun, but let's make sure to pay the rent and keep the children fed. How much did you earn this week?"

Freddy lurched toward his father before steadying himself. He pulled himself up tall, looming over his father by three or four inches. "Ah… It was 45 shillings, Dad."

"Well, you don't need a whole barrel of ale, Fred," Henry said softly. "Give me 40 bob for Mary. Keep the rest for your walking-about money."

"I can do 25," Freddy said with a boozy grin. "I'm sorry, but that's me best offer. I'll square it with Mary later."

"Now, Freddy," Henry said, with resignation in his voice. It wasn't enough, but he and Peter needed to push on to the Levines' house, and he knew it wouldn't help to argue. So he simply waited.

Shaking his head, Freddy reached in his coat pocket, counted out some coins, and handed them to his father. A few small coins - pennies and halfpennies- tumbled through his hand, and Peter crouched down to pick them up. Before he could get up, his father's boot was in his back, and he was sprawled on the ground.

"Ow, Da! Why did you…" he started to protest, but then thought better of it.

Freddy was half laughing, half sneering. "Never grovel, son," he said. "You can't be seen scrapping about for farthings. Don't let me see you do that again," he said.

Peter clambered to his feet with a hand up from his grandfather, and rubbed his back, glaring at his father. Freddy leaned down to whisper in his ear.

"Come to the table and meet my friend Mr. Walker. We've got a bit of work for you," Freddy said.

Peter craned his neck to look past his father. Ernest Walker was sitting there, red-faced and laughing. Rotund, shabbily dressed, with one black front tooth and a bulbous nose, Walker was an unattractive companion. Walker waved Peter over, but the boy shrunk back behind his grandfather and tugged at his sleeve.

"Granda, we have to go," Peter said urgently.

But his father reached around, grabbed Peter around the shoulder and pushed him to the table. "Ernie, you remember my boy Peter. Alfie Burke has told you about him," he said.

Walker barked out a laugh, spraying ale into the boy's face. "A skinny little one he is," he told Freddy. "He'll do all right." He turned to the boy. "How old are you - six?"

"Six?! Blimey, no," Peter said as the men at the table laughed. "I'm 10," he said, reddening. "And I might be skinny, but you're ugly."

Walker was momentarily stunned into silence, and Alfred grabbed the boy roughly by the scruff of his neck. But just then, Walker blasted out another big laugh. "You bloody well ain't afraid of me, are you, now? That's good, sunny Jim. And I'm nobody's idea of a beauty, that's Gawd's truth. I'll look for you both right here tomorrow night. We've got some windows to clean," he said, jabbing a companion in the ribs with his elbow. He laughed roughly again as Alfred gave Peter a clap on the head and pushed him away toward Henry.

The old man shook his head sadly as he took Peter by the hand and led him onto the street.

"I don't want to clean no windows with that ugly old Ernie Walker," Peter sulked as he walked along with his grandfather. Henry stopped and pulled Peter into a hug. "He scares me, Granda," Peter said with a small sob. "My Da took me to see him once, and he was smacking the boys who work for him."

Henry took out a handkerchief and dried his grandson's tears before handing it to him to blow his nose. Peter sighed, then mustered a smile and a nod. They resumed their walk to the Levines' home. As they approached, a warm light was glowing in the window.


	8. Ten: November 1924 (Part 3)

**Ten: November 1924 (Part 3)**

Peter had barely rapped at the door of 22 White's Row before Harold Levine was ushering him and his Granda into the front hallway. The scent of a delicious Shabbos meal hung in the air: Fish, chicken, vegetables, bread, and sweet-smelling spices. The happy sounds of voices raised in song were drifting in from the front sitting room.

Hal led the way through double doors to where the family had gathered after supper. His brother Sam, their little sisters Ruth and Evie, and their parents, Mendel and Rachel Levine, were chatting and singing. His grandfather, Abram, was contentedly snoring in a deep, soft chair, and his maiden aunt Rebecca, Rachel's elder sister, was not far behind him.

"Look who's here," Hal announced to his family. Mendel and Rachel were on their feet instantly. Mendel extended a hand to Henry Newkirk, while Rachel enveloped Peter in a hug.

"Such a dear boy," Rachel said. "How are your baby sisters, Peter?"

"Oh, they're all grand!" Peter replied. "You know, Mavis is going to the Infants' School now that she's five. I wish she was at my school, though."

"Then you could look after her every day, eh?" Hal said. He'd seen Peter with his family often enough to know how the boy doted on all his sisters, but especially Mavis.

Mendel got Henry settled in a chair and poured out glasses of wine for all the men, while Rachel led Peter into the kitchen. Ruthie and Evie tagged behind, tittering. At 14 and 11, they knew Peter as an occasional playmate, not a young working man, and they were curious to see what he would do.

"Peter, I've noticed the fire is getting low," Rachel Levine said.

"I can stoke it, Mrs. Levine," Peter said. He peered into the stove. "I'll just add some little bits of coal. There's a good, thick bed of it in there."

As Peter busied himself with the stove, another guest arrived.

"It's Lois! It's Lois!" Evie shouted from the hallway. "Sammmmmy…. Your girlfriend is here!"

Soon the kitchen erupted in chatter as a young lady joined the Levine women and Rebecca in the kitchen. Evie was laughing as she hugged and kissed the new arrival; Ruthie was being studiously mature, taking their guest's coat. Peter, his back to all the commotion, finally finished up with the stove, looked up, and saw her.

"Miss Warsky!" he shouted. He jumped to his feet, wiping off his hands on his short gray trousers, as he rushed to her. Then he paused, realizing that his grimy hands would leave marks on her beautiful pale blue dress. So he stood before her, arms behind his back, and simply grinned, bouncing up and down on his toes.

"Peter! My goodness, what a surprise to see you here! You've got so big!" Lois Warsky was saying as Sam Levine walked up beside her and took her hand.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked. "I've missed you so much!"

"Well, I've missed you…" she started to answer, but them Sam jumped in.

"Lois and I are engaged to be married, Peter," he said with evident pride.

 **H-H-H-H-H**

It only took 30 minutes for Peter to finish up his work at the Levines' house. The dishes were rinsed and neatly stacked in the kitchen; the fires in the sitting room and the kitchen were primed to keep burning; candles were blown out and hallway lamps were lit, ensuring everyone a safe passage to bed; and in old Abram Levine's room, a hot water bottle was tucked into the foot of the bed.

As Peter and his grandfather prepared to leave, Mrs. Levine pressed a soft _challah_ loaf into his arms, "for your _Mami_ ," and Mr. Levine slipped the surprised boy a whole shilling. Miss Warsky came back out to the hall, and pulled him close to her, then gave him a kiss on the cheek and a clutch of lemon drops, as Ruthie and Evie watched and giggled. Peter beamed, and promised to return in a week.

Arriving back home on Gun Street, Henry Newkirk walked his grandson up the stairs, into the warm kitchen. Mary was nursing baby Gwenneth while her older daughters slept in the bedroom the entire family shared. Peter yawned and stretched as he took off and hung up his coat. He pecked his mother on the cheek and handed her the shilling.

"You keep it, Peter _bach_ ," Mary said. "You earned it, my love." Her father-in-law was counting out the wages he had collected from his son, and Peter noticed his mother's face fall as she realized how little was left. He decided to save the shilling until she was as sure as he was that she needed it.

After his grandfather headed home, Peter sat with his mother and regaled her with the news of the night, including the exciting reunion with Miss Warsky. He pointedly left out the visit with his father at the Ten Bells.

"Ah, that lovely girl," Mary said. "I never understood what happened to her, how she could…"

"It wasn't her, Mammy," Peter said adamantly. "She didn't steal any money from the Hackney Empire. I'm certain of it."

Mary studied her son's face. A flash of anger had crossed his face - a look she had seen many times in her husband. There was more of him in the boy than either of her men recognized, she thought. Finally, she spoke. "You have faith in her, Peter. So I will too."

Peter smiled, but couldn't suppress a yawn. He got up and hugged his mother good night, leaning in to kiss Gwennie, who was now sleeping deeply in her mother's arms. Mary yawned too. It was 10 o'clock and the long day was not yet over.

 **H-H-H-H-H**

It was two hours later when Peter woke from a sound sleep to hear the rising voices in the kitchen. He got up and peered through the door.

"Are they paying him, Mary? They can bloody well afford it."

"I don't know or care whether they pay him," Mary responded sharply. "They pay me. They let me work when I can, and they give me time off when I can't. When Gwenneth was born last year, they sent piecework home to me so that I could keep earning a living even when you…"

An open palm slammed the table, and suddenly Alfred was inches from Mary's face, dukes up. "Bloody, bloody hell, Mary. I am working."

Her voice shook as she replied. "Do you mean to frighten me, Freddy? With your fists, now? I know you're working. Well, hurrah for you. You do have four children to support, you know. As long as you keep drinking the wages, I have to …"

He grabbed her hard by the upper arm, but let go almost instantly. "Why do you have to work for them Jews, then?" he muttered.

"What?" She looked as stunned by his words as she was by the sudden attack and retreat. "What does their religion have to do with anything?"

"They're not Christian. They're not like us," he said.

Mary scoffed. "Not Christian? What, like you? Our charitable Christian friends don't have much use for poor people like us, Freddy. You know, when I was having Peter, Dr. Emsworth wouldn't even look at me because we could barely pay him a farthing. Peter was delivered by Dr. Stern, and so were the rest of the children. Our Jewish neighbors have treated me kindly, Freddy. Always kindly."

If she had let herself continue, Mary might have pointed out that it was Dr. Stern's wife who took pity on her when she was nine months pregnant with Peter. Nothing else could explain the doctor's decision to let his wife's laundress pay what little she could for the delivery and make up the rest by washing and pressing his shirts. And nothing else could explain why the same arrangements were extended with each successive child. Nor could it explain the small bundles of baby clothes and nappies that Dr. and Mrs. Stern just happened to find two or three times a year.

Instead, Mary simply stared at her husband until he looked away, shame crossing his face.

"Go to bed and sleep it off, Freddy," she finally said wearily. "And don't ever speak this way about the Levines to me again."

 **NOTES:**

 _Challah_ is the traditional braided bread served on the Sabbath. Miss Warsky, the box office manager at the Hackney Empire, previously appeared in Chapter 5. Dr. Emsworth was the impatient customer at the Levines' tailor shop in Chapter 6. _Bach_ is a Welsh term of endearment.


	9. Ten: November 1924 (Part 4)

**Ten: November 1924 (Part 4)**

"Time we got going, boy," Alfred Newkirk was saying as he hovered impatiently in the hallway outside the flat. Peter was standing before his mother in the kitchen as she wrapped a scarf around his neck and checked that his worn coat was buttoned up against the cold afternoon. "Come on, Mary, don't coddle the boy. We have things to do."

"What things can you possibly have to do at this time on a Saturday afternoon with a child of 10?" Mary snapped. Her features softened as she drew her son into a hug. "Be careful, now, Peter, and don't get yourself into trouble." She cast a glare over her shoulder at her husband, then returned her gaze to her son. "Listen to your heart," she whispered. She handed her son his school cap.

Five-year-old Mavis had sidled up to her brother to watch solemnly as he fixed his cap on his head. Peter bent down to his sister and took her hand.

"I'll see you when I get back," he told her. Looking up, he added, "Bye, Mam," with a weak smile.

"Don't forget to wake me up when you come in, Peter, and tell me everything," Mavis responded. She smiled and skipped off to sit at the table with her little sisters, who were nibbling on toast and bits of sausage.

Down the stairs and on the street, Peter scrambled behind his father as they made their way to their appointment with Ernie Walker at The Ten Bells pub.

"Hurry up, son," Alfred said, stopping to light a cigarette as the boy raced to catch up with him.

"Mr. Walker said we were going to clean windows, but it's getting dark," Peter said. "How can we do that, Da?"

Alfred laughed and shook his head. "Never you mind. Let's go," he said. He was a good 10 yards down the pavement from his son when he heard a tumble and a clank behind him. The boy, wearing hand-me-down boots from Cousin Charlie that were still too big, must have tripped over his own feet, Fred thought with a sigh. He turned around and headed back.

"All right now, back on your pins," Fred said, brushing off the boy's coat, not even noticing the scraped knee or the mist in the child's eyes. "Oi, what's this?" he said, picking up a skeleton key from the pavement.

Peter grabbed at his father's hand. "That's mine!" he said.

"Yours?" his father laughed. "You don't have no keys."

"Well, it's Mr. Levine's. For his shop. I have to bring it back to him tonight after sundown, so he can open up the shop," Peter said.

Fred examined the key in his hand with a new appreciation. "The shop key, is it? Well then, I shall deliver it meself," he said, tucking it into his own pocket.

"No, Da!" Peter shouted. His voice was angry and guttural. "It's mine to take to him. I have to do it!"

In a flash, his father had him by the ear. Peter twisted to get free, intensifying the sharp pain.

"Shut it," Freddy hissed. "You'll be off to the Waifs and Strays Society soon if you don't button your lip." He roughly shook the boy loose. "It's mine now. Come on."

Sullenly, Peter followed close behind his father, determined not to cry. Yes, his eyes were trickling, but that was the cold November wind slicing into him, Peter told himself.

 **H-H-H-H-H**

Ernie Walker was at his usual table in the corner past the far end of the bar as Peter and Alfred arrived at The Ten Bells. Alfred took a seat, while Peter stood behind him, shifting from one foot to another to shake off the cold and loosen up his sore knee. As the men talked, Peter studied Walker. A few clumps of graying hair, that bulbous red nose, and the single black tooth were horrible to see, but his eyes—a watery shade of blue—might have been kind once, Peter decided. Maybe he had a mother, or children of his own. He shook off the thought as Walker pulled him closer and breathed boozily into his face.

"Good climber, are you?" Walker asked. Peter, his face just inches from Walker's, nodded fast, his eyes wide.

Walker laughed an explosive "baa-haa-haa," spattering the boy with spittle as he pushed him back to his father. "Well, let's get cracking," he said, draining the last drop from his pint of ale. The two men and the boy elbowed their way through the Saturday evening crowd in the pub, tumbled out onto Commercial Street, and headed north. Up they went, passing Lamb Street before turning left on Folgate Street. Approaching Elder Street, Walker halted and turned to his companions.

"Some lovely homes right here on Elder Street," Walker said. "We're going to have a nice look through them windows and see what we can see, eh, Peter? And don't stop under no lamp posts. Keep going."

They turned right and strolled along, with Peter walking closest to the windows. Past 25, 23, 21, 19, 17 and on they went, studying each house as they went past. At Fleur de Lis Street, they turned right, and then another right at Commercial Street. They picked up their pace as they rounded the corner.

"We'll just pop in here to the Commercial Tavern for a moment," Walker said. The old high-ceiling pub with yellow lamps hanging down was smaller than the local, The Ten Bells, but nearly as crowded. Walker ordered pints for himself and Alfred. The trio gathered at a sticky table at the back of the pub.

"Plenty inside all them houses. Candlesticks, lace, pretty things. Probably some money if we're lucky. We'll skip 25 and 23—too well lit," Walker said. "But at 21, we can get through that. I can break that window, and Fred, you put the boy in."

"No. 17 will be easier," Peter piped in.

"What?" Walker said. Alfred's eyes widened as he put down his drink.

"Nobody was home there or at the houses on either side. And the windows open sideways, not up and down. They're like a little door, so they're probably closed with a hook, see. We can slide something in and pop them open," Peter reasoned, miming the action with his hands.

"How did you figure that?" Alfred asked.

Peter shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I just looked and I thought…" He was turning red as the two men stared at him. "Well, m-m-maybe I'm wrong…"

Walker let out another rumbling explosion. "Baw-haw-haw," he laughed. "You've got a firecracker here, Alfred Newkirk. Peter's got a good plan. Let's get to work."

 **H-H-H-H-H**

An hour later, after a zig-zag course through the side streets of Spitalfields, the trio had tumbled back into The Ten Bells, collapsing at Walker's table. Alfred had a pair of brass candlesticks up his sleeves and two pocket mirrors and four small silver boxes stuffed in his pockets. Walker had snagged a pocket watch, an alarm clock, and a jewelry box crammed with rings and cufflinks, as well as a pile of coins. Peter had filled his pockets with a fancy set of salt and pepper shakers, an assortment of linens and lace, and a tiny stone fox, with clothes painted on, that had caught his eye. It was an impressive haul. Walker collected the loot, letting Peter keep the fox, and disappeared long enough to stash them out of sight.

Then he returned and got down to the business of settling accounts. Walker counted out the coins, stacking crowns, half crowns, florins and shillings, and splitting them up evenly with Fred. "A good night's work," he said, flashing his hellish grin. "Peter, here's a sixpence for you."

"He'll take all of them, thank you," Alfred said, pushing a pile of smaller coins over to Peter. "And all them thruppence and tu'pennies, if you please." Walker's eyebrows went up, but he shrugged as Alfred smiled brazenly at him. "He did more than his fair share," Alfred said. "Pay the lad."

It was indeed a good night's work. The men had each made off with close to five pounds sterling, more money than a working-class man could earn honestly in a fortnight. And that didn't include the loot that Walker had stashed away to be sold in the coming days.

Feeling celebratory, Alfred made his way to the bar to order the first round of drinks, including a blackcurrant squash for Peter. Peter played with the little fox as the men drank, talked, and laughed. It looked like the fox from the dog-eared storybook Mam had bought at a jumble sale when it was just the two of them.

"Mavis will like this," he thought. "Nobody could call Mr. Tod 'nice,'" he giggled to himself. "The rabbits could not bear him; they could smell him half a mile off," he recited in his head.

By the third round, the men's spirits were high, and Peter's were flagging. Alfred was regaling Walker with tales of the Levines and their comfortable, well-furnished home and abundant wealth. Peter could feel his cheeks burning as his father gabbed. Then a thought grabbed hold of him: The key. He needed to return the key, and his father still had it.

More men arrived to drink with them, and another round was ordered. Peter brooded and yawned at the crowded table as the night dragged on. Finally, his father got up and headed to the back of the pub. Peter scampered after him.

"You don't have to follow me to the alley, son. I'm just going to take a piss," Alfred slurred as his boy followed.

"Well, I've got to go too, Da," Peter said.

In the alleyway, father and son finished their business. Then Alfred turned to find the door and stumbled. Peter's hands were on his father right away.

"Steady, now, Da. I've got you," he said, patting his father's coat as he steered him back to the pub.

"A little lad like you?" Alfred laughed. "I don't need your help. Come on, back inside." Peter ignored the rebuff and walked close to his father, leaning in and holding on, as they returned to the warmth of the pub. He pulled away as they approached the back doorway.

"Da, if it's all right with you, I'm going to go home now," Peter said, adding a yawn for punctuation. "Mam will be wondering where we've got to. And I've got to go with her to chapel in the morning."

His father looked him over. He was a small boy, but sturdy enough. The lad would make it home all right, Alfred thought. Then he wouldn't have to rush home from the pub. There was still more than an hour to closing time.

"All right, then, off with you," Alfred said. "But go straight home."

"Yes, Da," Peter replied. He smiled so sweetly that Alfred couldn't help but go on.

"And Peter? Good work tonight," Alfred said.

Peter just looked wide-eyed at his father, who stood swaying in the doorway of the pub with a lopsided grin on his face. That was a compliment, Peter realized. Look grateful. So he smiled and nodded at his Da.

"I'll be off, then," Peter said. Out of the alley he went. He turned left, then continued down Commercial Street.

Once he was safely out of his father's view, Peter stopped and reached in his pocket. Mavis's little stone fox was still there.

So was the Levines' key. And so were four half-crowns and five shillings for Mam, plus all the small coins Ernie Walker had pushed across the table at him.

Peter whistled nonchalantly as he made his way home by way of the Levines'. Mam wasn't going to have to worry this week. He could feel it in his heart.

 **NOTE:** Part 4 concludes this chapter – finally!

The Waifs and Strays Society was a charity created to keep needy children from getting in trouble with the law. It was run for many years by the Church of England and is known today as The Children's Society. Alfred isn't making an idle threat; he is voicing his anxiety that he can't support his family without supplementing his income with some illicit activities. Peter would be the first to go, and he probably knows it.

The Commercial Tavern is a Victorian pub on Commercial Road, and is still in operation.

In the final Ten Bells pub scene, Peter is entertaining and distracting himself with the little stone fox by reciting Beatrix Potter's "The Tale of Mr. Tod" in his head. I imagine he could have read this book to his sisters.

A crown is a five-shilling coin; a half-crown is a two-and-a-half shillings coin; a florin is a two-shilling coin. Well, at least they were before decimalization. The four half-crowns and five shillings in Peter's pocket work out to 15 shillings. All those little coins probably brought the total close to a pound.

There were 12 pence in a shilling and 20 shillings in a pound. A reminder, Alfred earned about 45 shillings in a week WHEN he was working – that is two pounds, five shillings. So the five pounds he picked up in his Saturday night crime spree would have been more than two weeks' wages.


	10. Ten: December 1924 (Part 1)

**Ten: December 1924 (Part 1)**

Things had gone swimmingly for four weeks after the heist on Elder Street, as Ernie Walker disposed of the stolen items from his lair in a storage room at the back of The Ten Bells and shared a portion of the proceeds with Alfred Newkirk. They'd involved Peter in another little weekend caper—this time, as lookout—and the boy knew that they'd hit a few more residences late at night without him. Mam didn't know it, but Da no longer bothered to go to work as a day laborer, yet his pockets jingled every night. Everyone was well fed for a change, and Peter even had a properly fitting pair of thick-soled boots with leather laces, just in time for winter.

It was December 19, the Friday before Christmas, when Peter arrived at The Ten Bells pub at 9 p.m. in search of his father. As usual, he had come straight from his _Shabbos goy_ duties at the Levines' house to plead with Da for the week's "wages," if that was what he was supposed to call them now. What was it the minister had said at chapel last week? "Wages of sin," Peter reminded himself. So, yes, he reasoned, the word still worked, job or no job.

Peter arrived to find his father lifting up a pert blonde barmaid to sit on the bar for a chat as he leaned in with his pint of ale. The boy let out a few well-timed coughs, and his father turned around to face him. Even a boy of 10 could see that Alfred was handsome and still young and fit enough to attract the ladies. He was always neatly turned out, clothes tidy, with his light brown hair, untouched by gray, finely parted and oiled into place. His dark eyes shone, and his smile revealed something rare for a working class man in the East End—good teeth. Peter saw instantly that his father was in a cheerful mood, so he smiled brightly back at him, tilting his head sideways.

"Mam says she needs to pay the landlord, Da," Peter said. "She said you're not to drink the wages. I'm to bring them home to her." He thrust out his hand.

Alfred guffawed. "The cheek of this lad. He's just like his mother," he said, squeezing his companion around the waist. "What do you think, Sally. Should we help the old girl out?"

"Oh, Freddy, pay up," Sally responded, smiling over his shoulder at Peter. "She's your wife, and she's got all them kids to think about. Look at this lovely lad of yours. He's got your smile, Freddy, but those must be his Mum's eyes." She leaned forward to address Peter. "Hello, young chap. What do they call you? Are you a Freddy too?"

Peter looked to his father for permission to speak, and got a nod.

"I'm Peter, Miss," he said, taking a moment to dip his head shyly. "And you're very pretty," he added, looking up through his eyelashes for effect.

Sally chortled. "Oh my lord, Freddy, he gets that from you. How old are you, Peter Newkirk?"

"I was 10 last month, Miss. How old are you, 18? My Da's 33, aren't you Daddy?" He smiled with practiced innocence at his father.

"That's enough, boy," Freddy interjected as Sally laughed into her hand. "Here," he said, handing over a fistful of coins. "Take this and go home to your Mammy right now before I box your ears. No, wait. Stop and say hello to the men before you leave." He took the boy by the shoulder, turned him around, and pointed. "You see Ernie over there, and Mr. Burke is in back in the storage room, checking on a few things. See if they needs you for anything."

Peter eyed the crowns and shillings before shoving them in the pocket of his woolen school shorts. Two pounds and 10 shillings. It wasn't enough, and Peter knew it. Tired from a long day of school and work, the child considered declaring victory and going home. Instead, Peter smiled and parked himself at the table, sticky with spilled beer and cigarette ashes. He forced himself to chat amiably with creepy old Ernie Walker while waiting for an opportunity to extract some more coins from his Da's pockets. He practiced a bit by leaning affectionately into Ernie like any boy might with a father or uncle, and fished up a few florins for his trouble.

Then the peelers swarmed in, and shouts of "dealing in stolen goods" pulsated in Peter's eardrums. Alfred patted his barmaid on the knee and took off at a clip for the back door. Ernie hefted himself to his feet and waddled along behind him, treading on Peter's foot as he passed. Poor old Ernie never stood a chance, but Alfred might have made a clean break if three rounds of ale and whiskey hadn't interfered with his balance. Peter followed the cops to the back doorway of the pub and peered out to see his father stumble into the rubbish bins and land on his face.

A bobby was hauling Alfred to his feet as Peter retreated back inside. "It's my lucky day," he thought as he approached the table. Ernie and Da had taken off their overcoats and draped them over a chair; sure enough, there were plenty of coins still in their pockets. Peter cleaned out Ernie's pockets, gathered his Da's coat, and ambled away from the pub, passing his old man and his horrid accomplice just as the handcuffs were snapped into place. It was a cold night, and Peter decided to slip on the coat. With the hem dragging behind him, he headed home.

He was halfway down Commercial Street when a slight figure appeared from the shadows, startling him. But under a street lamp, he could see it was a friendly face. Thank goodness for Mr. Alfred Burke.

Peter ran to Alfie, throwing himself into the wiry thief's arms. He looked up and saw the concern in the old fellow's face as Alfie pulled him into a dark doorway. Alfie knelt down, his hand on the boy's cheek.

"You're all right now," Alfie told Peter. "But let's take off this coat. Someone might notice it and start asking questions, and we don't want that. Never do anything to call attention to yourself."

Peter slipped off the coat and handed it to Alfie. "The coins," he said. "Me Mam needs the wages."

Alfie felt in the pockets and shook his head. He would have to deliver it to Mary himself. Still kneeling, he explained it softly to the boy.

"It's too many coins for a boy your age, Peter. Remember what I told you," Alfie said patiently. "No one will think twice about a boy with shillings and sixpence, but you can't go about with pounds in your pockets. If a policeman stops you, between the coat and the money, he'll know it isn't yours."

Peter nodded. He wasn't afraid of the dark any more, not really, but suddenly he didn't want to walk home alone.

"Will you come with me?" Peter asked beseechingly. "Will you tell me Mam?"

Alfie was folding the coat into a small bundle, removing his belt to hold it snug.

"Of course I will," Alfie said. He took the boy by the hand. "Let's be off. Oh, and Peter?"

"Yes, Mr. Burke?"

"Say 'my Mum,' or 'my mother,' not 'me Mam,'" Alfie said with a smile. "It's a little thing, but it makes such a difference in how people think of you."

"Like the peelers?" Peter inquired.

"You mean the policemen, dear boy, and yes, that's precisely who I mean," Alfie said as they continued down Commercial Street. "You'd be surprised what a difference word choice and proper pronouns make, really," he said, launching into a discourse on the dangers of dropped H's and glottal stops.


	11. Ten: December 1924 (Part 2)

**Ten: December 1924 (Part 2)**

Alfred Burke was a dear fellow, but his presence on Mary Newkirk's doorstep was seldom a good sign. His arrival often led to whispered conversations in the hallway, or the departure of her husband, and sometimes her son, generally at odd hours. Mary had her suspicions about why, though she chose not to dwell on them. So when Alfie arrived at nearly 11 o'clock on a Friday night with her husband's coat and her 10-year-old son in tow, Mary immediately felt queasy—although in point of fact, she'd been queasy for days, and she had strong suspicions about that, too.

As Mary drew Peter into her arms and helped him take off his coat, Alfie took off his hat and stepped from the hallway landing into the warm kitchen.

"I'm afraid Fred is in custody, Mary," Alfie said. "It may be a few days before you can see him."

A new wave of nausea washed over Mary, but she pulled herself up, waved Alfie over to the table, and put the kettle on. Well, this was new, she thought. Freddy had been involved with some dodgy things, but he'd never had trouble with the law.

While Mary fussed over the tea, Peter was at her side, clinging as he had as a little boy of 3 or 4. Tending to her son, who was shaking from cold, exhaustion, and worry, kept her own feelings of shock in check. She tried to bundle him off to bed, but he wouldn't have it. He said wanted his cup of tea, and would help Mr. Burke tell her everything.

With his mother's encouragement, Peter took off his jumper, stowed away his boots, and took a seat close by Alfie, folding his arms on the table to make a pillow for his head. He sleepily chipped in his own details as the account of the night's events spilled out. He was running out of steam by the time he described watching the bobbies burst through the door. When Mary set out three tea cups and waited to fill the teapot, Peter studied his as if through a haze. It was the Mad Hatter and White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. As he pondered whether he was too big for it now, the adult voices grew strangely distant.

Alfie didn't tell Mary everything, of course. The poor dear; he could see she had enough on her mind. Her small kitchen testified to a hectic life. Three sizes of little girls' dresses and stockings were drying by the fire, alongside Mary's own clothes. An ironing board was stacked with customers' shirts and dresses, and white wash was soaking in the sink. A stack of neatly ironed clothes sat on a sideboard. Not the family's, Alfie was sure. Working families like the Newkirks couldn't possibly have more than two or three sets of clothes each.

Mary took in the same scene. Those ironed clothes were to be wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string, and marked for delivery; Peter would see to that in the morning. For Mary, the end of the work week on Friday night was just a shift to a different rhythm. For two days, she would put aside her seamstress duties at Levine & Sons and concentrate on piecework, laundry, and her own housework. Thank God for her mother-in-law, she thought. She alone kept the chaos at bay while Mary earned a living.

This much was clear to Mary as she listened to Alfie explain the evening's events: Her Freddy had got caught up in a right mess with that wretched Ernest Walker. She shook her head. Didn't her husband have any sense at all? Everyone knew Walker traded luxury items for pennies to the pound. Birdcages, silver tea sets, fancy china. Where did Freddy _think_ they came from, for heaven's sake? He should have stayed far away from that greasy old character.

Alfie let her down easy, suggesting gently that Fred had been swept up in handling dubious merchandise after falling under Ernie's mesmerizing spell. He never hinted that Fred had broken into shops and homes, stolen bags full of treasures, and dragged his small son along as an accomplice. The less said about all that, the better, Alfie told himself. A poor man's business could be so dreadfully messy.

By the time Mary sat down to sip at her tea, Peter was asleep at the table, one arm hanging at his side.

"He saw it all, did he?" Mary asked Alfie, nodding to her son. "His own father, being carted away by the policemen?"

"I'm afraid he did, Mary. And his first thought was for you. He grabbed Fred's coat, knowing that you'd need his wages. I caught up with him on his way home and made sure no one interfered with him," Alfie said. "He was quite brave, but it was a lot for a boy to take in."

"He is brave, _fy ngwas i_ ," Mary said proudly. She looked at Peter and sighed, wishing he had been home with her instead of witnessing the arrest. "Help me put him to bed, will you, Alfie? I'm afraid I'm in no condition to lift him," Mary said.

"Oh, my dear," Alfie said. "Do you mean…?"

Mary let out a deep sigh. "It appears so," she replied, with a hitch in her voice. "It seems we'll have a new addition sometime in the late spring. I'm not sorry, but a fifth child, Alfie…it's already so hard to keep everyone fed and clothed."

The old thief stood up and patted her shoulder. "You're a lovely mother, Mary," he said. "You'll manage. And Freddy won't be gone long."

She nodded as Alfie lifted the boy and carried him to the bedroom. "You'll see his camp bed in front of the dresser," she said. Mary sat at the table alone for a moment and aimed her comments to the four walls.

"Oh, bloody hell, Freddy, what were you thinking?"

 **H-H-H-H-H**

The day after Fred Newkirk was picked up on charges of handling stolen goods, Mary started throwing up. Peter thought she must be worried. One night, when little Kathleen had awakened from a nightmare, Peter rubbed the sleep from his eyes, picked up the toddler, and popped his head out into the kitchen to bring his sister to Mam, who was always busy at night with her ironing.

But not that night. Mam was crying hard into her older sister's shoulder. "I don't know why I let him touch me," she was telling Aunt Gladys, who nodded sympathetically as she held out a basin. "He makes me barmy with his comings and goings, but I still love him, Gladys."

Peter wanted to run to his mother, throw his arms around her, and cry with her. He felt ashamed, angry, and afraid as he replayed the arrest scene in his mind several times a day. And he was bursting with questions. When would Da be home? Would Da and Ernie Walker tell the police about him, too? Would it be better if Da didn't come home? Inside, Peter knew that no one could answer his questions, so it wasn't worth asking. His job was to be tough and look after Mam.

Peter hugged and shushed his crying sister, and settled back in bed beside her. He lay awake worrying about Mam long after he got the 3-year-old back to sleep.

Somehow, Mam rallied long enough on Christmas Eve to bundle her four children off to church. "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and "Away in a Manger" cheered everyone up, as did the small gifts that the ladies of the congregation pressed into their hands. A spinning top for Peter, a fan for Mavis, a pretty hair bow for Kathleen, and a plush kitty with button eyes for little Gwenneth. Some tattered books for all of them, and a bag full of oranges and apples. Mam's eyes were glistening as they left the church for the walk home, carrying Gwenneth as Peter shepherded Kathleen and Mavis along a snowy street.

"Never forget how kind people can be, Peter," she told her son as they walked along. "There are always good people about who will help you if you'll let them. Your father lets his pride get in the way, but I can't do that. Not with you children to think about."

The next afternoon, with assistance from the Welsh congregation, Mary managed to put a Christmas Day meal, with a small ham as its centerpiece, on the table for her young brood. It was satisfying, though there were few frills and little company. Her in-laws, homebound as Granda's cough worsened, sent Uncle Jim over with a Christmas pudding. He stayed and whiled away a quiet evening whispering kindly to Mary, patting her hand, and shuttling the ever-present basin back and forth to the hallway toilet.

Peter, playing with his sisters on the kitchen floor, glanced over. Sometimes he wished he and Mam could go back in time when it was just the two of them. No, he didn't mean that, he thought, looking at his lively small sisters, playing with their little presents and vying for his attention. Maybe if they lived with Granny and Granda. Or they could go to their other grandparents in Wales, where Aunt Gladys, Uncle Arthur, and Cousin Charlie were right now. He loved the snug seaside cottage in Aberystwyth where Nain and Taid lived. At least, he thought he did. Peter scrunched his eyes, remembering one visit when Mavis was just a baby and he was 6 or 7. They hadn't been back since. Two more babies had come, and traveling so far was out of the question.

Peter spun his new top as his sisters giggled. He aimed it for his small collection of tin soldiers.

"Bam! There goes a battalion!" he said gleefully as the top collided with the soldiers. He set it up again. "Boom! There goes another one!"

"Again! Again!" The girls laughed even harder and tumbled into their big brother, combining their strength to push him down on his back and romp all over him. Peter laughed and laughed.

He loved these girls madly. He would never let anything happen to them.

 **Notes:** _Fy ngwas i_ is Welsh for "my darling boy." Nain and Taid are the Welsh words for Grandma and Grandpa. Aberystwyth is a college town smack in the middle of the coast of Wales.


	12. Ten: December 1924 (Part 3)

**Ten: December 1924 (Part 3)**

Boxing Day was a time for seeing family and friends, but this year the Newkirks were alone at home. Mary, exhausted from a week of morning sickness and shame, simply wasn't up to visiting friends, and her sister was away.

Her in-laws, meanwhile, were homebound as Henry's relentless cough refused to improve. The shocking news that their Freddy was in jail certainly hadn't helped. Granny Newkirk sent a note urging Mary to keep her chin up and wait a few days longer before attempting to visit. Perhaps Henry would be better by New Year's Day. She would send her Jamie over in the meantime. Mary smiled. Jamie was Freddy's youngest brother, 25 now and long known as Jim to everyone but his parents.

It was Friday and a holiday, but by Monday she would have to be back at work at Levine & Sons, Tailors, and there was a lot to do before then. So Mary tucked into her piecework and sent her three oldest children outside to play. The girls were bundled up warmly enough, she thought as she saw them off, but Peter's coat was too short and too thin after three winters of steady wear. At least his boots fit, she sighed.

Neighborhood children were spilling into the street, chattering about Christmas and Chanukah.

"…And it's the sixth night tonight," Georgie Feinstein was telling Peter as he showed off his _dreidl_. "We're having _latkes_! I asked my _Zayde_ for a train set for the last night and he laughed at me." Georgie mimicked his grandfather with a deep voice and a Polish accent: "'It's not Christmas, _boychick_!'…"

"Train set!" Peter replied, eyes wide. "Blimey, it's Lord Hamley of Regent Street, in the flesh! I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance!"

"You're _meshuggah_ ,"Georgie laughed. "Well, maybe I'll get an orange, then."

"Me, too, if I'm lucky when I see the Levines tonight. But look—this'll do won't it?" Peter said, grinning. He produced his new spinning top from his pocket, and the two boys stepped into the street to find a smooth patch of asphalt, as their little sisters tagged behind.

Before long, a dozen young boys and some of the more daring girls were swept up into a football match organized by Phil and Tony Atkinson, who had got a new ball for Christmas. Mavis and Kathleen took their places on the curb next to 6-year-old Lizzie, Georgie's sister, and assorted other little ones as all the big boys got their energy out.

Peter was defending against Davey Collins when suddenly another boy shoved him hard, right into his pal Georgie. It was Frank Shaughnessy, an 11-year-old with a shaved head, ruddy complexion, pitted teeth, and perpetually runny nose. He was a head taller than Peter, and twice as wide.

"Your old man's in jail, then," Frank said to Peter, his nasal intonation loud enough for everyone to hear. "What'd he do, rob the collection plate on Christmas Eve?"

Peter shoved him back. "Leave off, Frankie," he muttered. "You don't know anything." He tried to look unbothered as he walked away, but his head dipped low as he went to the curb to collect his sisters. This match was over for him. Georgie joined him and threw an arm over Peter's shoulder as they strode off with their little sisters scampering ahead of them.

Frank followed the boys, taunting. "He's always been a bad 'un, your dad. That's what my Mam says. She says she ain't surprised that the Old Bill finally caught up with Freddy Newkirk. He's been up to no good for a long time. I heard he went to confession and he was in there for an hour…"

Peter shot a look at Georgie and tipped his head toward their flat. Georgie understood, and led Mavis, Kathleen, and Lizzie away from the fray as Peter turned to face Frank. Peter knew he couldn't overpower him, so he did the next best thing. He looked his opponent up and down, and laughed.

"What's the matter with you, Frankie? Are all them lice eating through your brain?" Peter mocked. "And wipe your nose. Oh, I'm sorry, you don't have handkerchiefs in your house, do you? Maybe you can just use your sleeve like your Mam does. I've seen 'er down the pub most nights, going like this." He extravagantly dragged his arm across his sleeve and snorted, drawing giggles and a chorus of "ewwwwws" from his fellow urchins.

Peter had hit a nerve. Frank was his mother's youngest, and she had traded domesticity for drinking before Frankie had even started school, when her husband abandoned his large family. Frankie came racing at Peter now, redder than ever. He was inches away from plowing down his smaller opponent when Peter stepped aside and stuck his foot out. Frankie tripped and sprawled across the pavement, bleeding from his mouth and wailing for his Mam. Peter briefly considered putting the boot in, but stopped himself. He settled for tossing off another insult.

"Cry all you want, Frankie," Peter said sweetly. "It won't hurt your appearance one bit." He walked off to rejoin Georgie and their sisters. According to the rough justice of boyhood, Peter knew he'd won the argument without throwing a punch. But he still felt defeated.

 **H-H-H-H-H**

Climbing the stairs to their flat, Peter and his sisters heard the whistle of a tea kettle, their baby sister's chortles, and the chaos of cheerful chatter. They had company.

Flinging open the door, Peter saw three guests gathered at the table: Sam and Hal Levine and Miss Lois Warsky. Sam was dandling Gwenneth on his lap while Mam filled the tea pot. Hal and Miss Warsky stood as Peter and his sisters rushed into the kitchen and into their arms.

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked breathlessly, leaning into Hal as Mavis climbed onto the young man's knee. He smiled shyly at Miss Warsky, who had swept up Kathleen and was plying her with lemon drops.

"Well, it's Boxing Day, isn't it?" Hal replied. "We're just out being jolly. No work until Monday!"

"And my father sent something along for you, my lad," Sam said. "Mary, can I show Peter now?"

Mary was beaming, looking happier than she had in a week. "It's ever so kind of you, Sam. I won't stop you, love," she said.

Sam handed Gwenneth over to Mary as she sat at the table, and walked across the room to retrieve a brown-paper bundle from atop the ironing board. He started to peel at the paper, but his brother was on his feet in seconds.

"You're doing it wrong, Sam," Hal said as he joined his brother. "Allow me." He waved Sam back to his seat.

Hal picked up the bundle. Holding it at arm's length, he waved his hands with a flourish and pronounced an incantation as the children watched, wide-eyed:

 _Hocus pocus, a-la-ka-zoo,_

 _Winter's here; what can we do?_

 _Hocus pocus, a-la-ka-zam,_

 _Keep this boy warm if you can._

Hal tore the brown paper wrapping off the bundle in one swift motion. There in his hands was a fine woolen coat, in hunter green, with bright brass buttons. It looked to be exactly Peter's size.

 **H-H-H-H-H**

A half-hour later, the tea cups were empty, and Peter and Hal were on the floor with Mavis and Kathleen, carefully constructing a house of cards. At the table, Sam, Lois, and Mary spoke in low voices.

"Anything you need, Mary," Sam was saying. "We'll help as much as we can, of course."

"Is there a trial date yet?" Lois was inquiring.

"Not yet. Freddy's brother Jim stopped by a few nights ago. He went to the police station to check on Fred, and he thought it might not go to trial. It could be a summary… summary…" She was searching her memory for the words Jim had used.

"Summary offense," Sam supplied. "Well, if that's the case, at least it will be resolved quickly. He might get a few months instead of years."

"That's what our Jim said," Mary said, nodding. "Six months is what the detective told him." Her voice shook. "It's not good. But it could have been worse," she said.

Sam nodded sagely, and spoke quietly, choosing his words with care. "These are very hard times, Mary, especially for men who served in the war," Sam said. "We can find him some work if he'll let us."

"Well, that's the rub, Sam," Mary said sadly. "He's a proud man. I don't know what help he'll accept." She sighed. Her husband's resentments ran deep. The hard-working, dutiful and devout Levine family reminded him of something, she thought. Through her, they were the family's support, a role Freddy struggled to fulfill. They reminded him of what he might have been before he started dousing his memories of time in the trenches with quarts of alcohol.

On the floor, Peter wound up his top. He aimed it at the house of cards he and Hal had just built, which now had a troop of tin soldiers arranged inside.

"Let 'er rip, Houdini," Hal was saying.

"Bam! Got 'em, Maskelyne! That's the whole regiment!" Peter shouted. The soldiers fell, the cards flew, and the warm, cozy kitchen echoed with laughter.

 **Notes** :

Boxing Day is December 26.

Peter is joshing his friend about his hopeful but extravagant request for a train set. Hamley's on Regent Street in London is the oldest and largest toy store in the world, founded in 1760. An orange and some coins would have been more typical Chanukah gifts for children of their time, place, and circumstances. For Christmas, a stocking containing an orange and a small toy like the top Peter received would enough to delight a child.

A little more Yiddish: A _dreidl_ is a traditional spinning toy for Chanukah. _Latkes_ are delicious potato pancakes. _Zayde_ is "Grandpa." _Boychick_ is an affectionate name for any boy - think "Sonny." _Meshuggah_ is "crazy."

The Old Bill is slang for "police," or more accurately, "the cops."

As noted in an earlier chapter, Houdini and Maskelyne are famous conjurers, magicians, and masters of deception.

A special hat tip to Snooky-9093 for her assistance with this story!


	13. Ten: April 1925

**Ten: April 1925**

In the end, Alfred Newkirk skirted a long sentence. A summary conviction on a first offence of handling stolen property meant six months in Pentonville Prison, but he was released in four months on good behavior. It was the Friday after Easter 1925 when his younger brother Jim arrived by underground and bus to meet him at the gate for the journey home.

Fred was enjoying the sensations of the warm sun and a light breeze as he emerged through the gatehouse. He had a travel voucher in his hand, a discharge grant in his pocket, and a broad smile on his face as he spied his brother outside the gate. But as he approached Jim for a handshake, he knew there was bad news.

It was their father. Henry Newkirk's cough only got worse and worse through the winter until one day he started hacking up blood. Fred had learned the news when his wife came to visit one snowy morning in February: It was cancer. Now Jim had worse news: Two days earlier, their father had died. The funeral was this afternoon.

Fred's joy at being released was extinguished, turning instantly to regret. He'd wanted to tell his father how sorry he was for causing anguish and shame. He told Jim instead on the journey home, until emotion choked off the words and threatened to reduce him to quivers. The brothers rode the rest of the way home in silence, united in their shared sorrow.

 **H-H-H-H-H**

At the flat on Gun Street, Mary was getting the children ready for their grandfather's funeral mass and burial when Fred and Jim arrived. Mary, in a dark blue dress that fit loosely over her swelling midsection, saw her husband from across the kitchen as she buttoned up Kathleen's dress, while Mavis kept Gwenneth still. Mary never hesitated, rising straight from her chair to fly into her husband's arms. The little girls huddled nearby, hiding behind Uncle Jim. Kathleen was the first to go to her father, and then Gwenneth and Mavis followed. Fred bent down to kiss his girls and spoke softly to each one.

"Freddy, I'm sorry to rush you, but it's almost time to go," Mary was saying. "I laid out your clean clothes in the bedroom. Please, love, get changed, and we can all make it to the church." Fred nodded along with her words and looked into the sweet faces of his little daughters as if he was seeing them for the first time.

In the doorway to the bedroom, Peter tucked in his shirt and watched, not knowing what his heart was feeling. Was it his mother's relief at seeing his father? His sisters' innocent acceptance of their Da's tender greetings? Or was something he couldn't quite name—a combination of shame, anger, worry, and plain fear? Was it the nameless feelings that he knew would have drowned him if he hadn't pushed them away with clever words, games, and distractions?

Peter was too young to recognize that he was feeling all of these things, but he was old enough to know it was something else too.

His father was his Da. Peter didn't understand him, and sometimes he didn't even like him. But somehow he loved him anyway, and for the first time in six years he had known him, he had missed him. He wanted nothing but to be loved in return, the way his mother loved him. Completely. Madly.

Alfred was crouching on the floor with his little daughters, with his wife's hand on his shoulder and his brother standing nearby, when he looked up and saw his son in the bedroom doorway. When had Peter grown from being a little child into a sturdy boy of 10? Had his son's face really begun to lose the softness of childhood in just four months, or had he simply not noticed earlier?

Peter's head was tipped to one side, and he was looking quizzically at his old man, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Fred stood slowly and took a tentative step toward the boy, and another, and another. Then he knelt down, opened his arms wide, and hoped for the best.

And Peter flew into his father's embrace and held on as if he would never let go.

 **Author's Note:** Thank you all for hanging in there while I completed my first long HH fanfic story. Your feedback has kept me going! In case anyone is wondering, I do plan a follow-up story that will take Newkirk to the age of 14 or 15.


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